


Confidences

by Anonymous



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Highlander Fanfic Season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 16:46:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7853116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richie gets shot at four in the morning in Joe's bar—and Methos may have the answers Joe and Duncan can't get out of him. Meanwhile, another old friend of MacLeod's is in town, and wants to know just how Sean Burns died...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confidences

“Slob,” Duncan grumbled in mild annoyance, as he moved about his living room, collecting empty beer bottles. “The least you could do is help.”

“Your flat, your mess,” Methos said cheerfully, while making a bed for himself on the couch. Duncan glared at him. “All right, then,” Methos said. “Tomorrow night, we’ll get sozzled at my place.”

“Can’t,” Duncan said, as he stooped to collect another three bottles. How had they drunk so much?

“Sure we can, if you’ll bring the booze.”

Duncan snorted. “I’m meeting a friend who usually brings his own.” _Peter,_ he thought. _Peter and Sean: how we used to laugh together…_

 

_**FLASHBACK: FRANCE—1934** _

“Shall I open another bottle?” Peter asked, as they relaxed by the fire in his parlor.

“I really should be getting back to the asylum,” Sean began, but his sense of duty was clearly wavering. Duncan and Peter smiled at each other knowingly, then Duncan leaned over to stage-whisper in Sean’s ear.

“But I need your advice,” Duncan said. “You see, my friend has this problem...”

“What sort of problem?” Sean asked suspiciously.

Duncan glanced briefly at Peter before saying, “He makes mouthwash, but...”

“Mouthwash?!” Peter said indignantly. “I’ll have you know I make some of the finest wine in France.”

“See?” Duncan said. “He’s suffering from a terrible delusion.” Peter made a strangled frustrated noise and Sean laughed.

“Oh, all right; I’ll stay the night,” Sean relented. He turned to Peter and said lazily, “Waiter! Another bottle of your finest mouthwash.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” Peter said to Sean, as he opened a bottle of wine and set it aside to breathe. “Or you,” he added, turning to Duncan. “Especially you. And why are you running off to Berlin? You keep dodging the question.”

“There’s not much I can say,” Duncan replied evasively.

“Someone’s seen it, then,” Sean said. “At last. Who are you working for? The British? The French? The Americans?”

“Seen what?” Peter asked.

“The signs,” Sean said. “There’s another war coming.”

“With the Germans?” Peter said, paling at the thought. “Not again. It isn’t fair...”

“Fairness has nothing to do with it,” Duncan said. “In the meantime, it’s eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow...”

“We’ll still be Immortal,” finished Sean.

 

_**PRESENT** _

“MacLeod,” Methos said insistently, jarring Duncan from his reverie.

“What?”

“Go to bed. You’re falling asleep on your feet.”

 

In the darkness outside, two men in a van sat watching the dojo. The driver smoked and shifted impatiently in his seat while his companion spoke to someone on a cell phone.

“He’s got a visitor who must be spending the night; he turned off the lights ten minutes ago and no one’s left the building.” A pause, then, “No, this man has dark hair. We haven’t seen the other guy. Do you want us to take them both?” He listened intently for a minute before saying, “Understood.” He shut off the phone and turned to the driver. “We wait.”

 

Methos was dreaming of Alexa when the phone rang. Alexa laughing, seemingly whole and healthy, Alexa nestled in his arms, Alexa on the beach... Reality slowly asserted itself as his thoughts drifted closer to the surface. The familiar ache of remembering Alexa was gone forever gave way to the momentary confusion of waking in a strange bed. No, he was on MacLeod’s couch. _Too much beer and not enough sense. You weren’t going to dream about her anymore, remember?_

He sat up groggily and fumbled for his watch. Twenty minutes past four. Duncan was hunched over the phone, speaking to someone in low, urgent tones. Bad news, then. What other kind would come at such an hour?

Duncan hung up the phone and, for the first time, noticed Methos watching him. Duncan looked worried... no, he looked worried and confused. Something had obviously gone wrong.

With a growing sense of unease, Methos asked, “What’s happened?”

“That was Joe,” Duncan said. “Richie’s dead. Joe shot him. Rich broke into the bar and Joe thought he was a burglar. Why would Richie break into Joe’s?”

Methos considered several possible answers to that question, including `How should I know?’ and `Does it matter? He won’t stay dead,’ but he could see that neither of those responses would help. _You are too damned tied to that boy for your own good,_ he thought, but he knew that bit of advice wouldn’t be welcome, either.

In the end, he simply said, “I’ll come.”

 

* * *

 

“Did he say anything?” Duncan asked, while bending down to inspect the corpse. There were wounds in Richie’s chest and the upper half of his body lay in a pool of congealing blood; he must have taken some time to die.

“Just my name,” Joe said. “Mac, I’m sorry. If I’d had any idea...”

“It’s not your fault; you weren’t expecting him.” Duncan fell silent for a moment, pondering the situation. _What a mess. Did you have to use a shotgun?_ he thought, but did not say. Joe felt bad enough without adding to his guilt. Duncan settled for a more neutral, “Why did he come here?”

“Desperately in need of a drink?” Methos suggested, as he appeared from a back room, carrying a basin of water and several small towels. Duncan scowled at him. “All right, so he wasn’t after the beer.” He and Duncan gingerly picked Richie up by the hands and feet, moving him away from the blood. “Surely he didn’t come to rob the till.”

“Richie gave up stealing years ago,” Duncan said. The possibility that Richie had reverted to the role of thief seemed so remote to Duncan that he wasn’t even offended by the suggestion. Kneeling to remove Richie’s shirt, he said, “He must have wanted something in the Watcher files.”

“Was he headhunting?” Methos asked, as he busied himself with a mop.

“Of course not,” Joe replied, “I would have known. And there’s no one hunting him; I double-checked while I was waiting for you.”

“Then what did he...” Duncan broke off in mid-sentence as Richie drew a sharp, convulsive breath. “Easy, Rich; it’s just us,” Duncan said, while placing a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Lie still, and wait for the pain to pass.” Richie lay back, looking around himself. His body relaxed but his eyes remained wary.

 _Ah,_ thought Methos, _trying to figure out what sort of mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time. You do have a talent for it._

“Joe’s sorry he shot you. He thought you were a burglar,” Duncan said, while gently sponging the blood away from Richie’s rapidly healing wounds.

“I know.” Richie spoke carefully. His breathing wanted to spasm and his chest ached abominably. _Why did I think this would be a good idea? Ryan, you are such a moron._ “I’m sorry I scared you, Joe. I didn’t know you were here. There weren’t any cars outside.”

“Mike borrowed my car,” Joe volunteered. “I needed to catch up on some Watcher reports, so I decided to spend the night here. Maybe if I’d been awake when you came in...”

“It’s not important, Joe,” Richie said.

“No, it isn’t,” Duncan agreed. “What’s important is what you were doing here in the first place. Why did you break in?”

After the briefest of hesitations, Richie said, “Practice.”

“Practice for what?” Joe asked incredulously. Duncan’s face had gone quite still, but Richie chose to ignore the ominous lack of expression.

“Oh, you know; practice breaking into places. Not that I’m going into competition with Amanda or anything, but sometimes a little stealth can be handy, even for us good guys. I didn’t want to lose my touch, and your place... well, you’re hardly going to press charges if I get caught, now are you?”

Joe rolled his eyes in gentle amusement. “Well, that’s one mystery solved.” _One out of two. I haven’t seen Mac fuss over you like this in a long time; he wouldn’t have tried it ’cause you wouldn’t have let him. Maybe that demon did us a good turn, after all?_

Richie grinned back at Joe, but his smile faded with a gasp as Duncan brusquely turned him over onto his stomach. He found himself gently pinned by a hand placed against the small of his back. He twisted around, glancing over his shoulder in surprise and met Duncan’s dark, steady gaze.

“That was a lie,” Duncan said quietly. “Would you like to try again?” Richie stared at him, then suddenly looked away, his face a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

 _How did you know?_ Methos wondered. _I would have believed him._

“I’m waiting,” Duncan said, as he began wiping away the blood on Richie’s back.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Richie said in a small, tight voice.

“It does matter, when someone wakes me up in the middle of the night to tell me you’re dead,” Duncan said with a trace of annoyance. His voice softened as he asked, “Is someone chasing you? Were you after Joe’s records?”

“No one’s chasing me,” Richie insisted.

“Then what...?”

“Oh, bloody hell, this is all my fault,” Methos said abruptly. He turned to Joe, looking apologetic. “I told him about your private little research project. I thought he already knew.”

“I haven’t had a chance to explain it to him,” Duncan said, sounding surprised. “Is that what you came here for? To listen to Joe’s tapes?”

 _Haven’t had the chance? When were you going to get around to it, my fiftieth birthday? Joe’s been interviewing you and Methos to get an insider’s view on what it’s like to be Immortal for what—months?—and you haven’t told me? What did you say that you don’t want me to know about?_ Richie was suddenly glad to find himself lying on the floor with his face turned away from Duncan and the others. _Okay. So you’re acting like this is no big deal, Mac. I can play that._

Forcing a casual tone, Richie said, “It was one of those impulse things, you know? I was riding around on my bike, and I thought, `What the hell? Slip into Joe’s for an hour, listen to a few tapes, maybe hear a funny story I haven’t heard before, and then slip out again.’ It’s really no big deal, right?”

“Right,” Duncan agreed, but he looked thoughtful.

“Joe,” Methos said. He nodded to one side, gently pulling him several feet away for a private chat.

“Richie,” Duncan said, when they were alone.

“What?”

“I really was going to tell you about the tapes.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Richie said, but Duncan could sense that it did.

“Sometimes you’re a very private person, Rich; not the kind who likes to talk about the past. I wanted to tell you about Joe’s project when we could really discuss it, in case the idea upset you, but you were always too busy.” Duncan put aside his towel and gave Richie a pat. “There, I’m done; you can get up now.”

Richie sat up and accepted a clean shirt from Duncan. “I’m sorry about the mess. Really, I wasn’t expecting things to turn out like this.”

“Hey, Mac,” Joe called. “I’d like a word with you.”

Duncan nodded to indicate he’d heard. Smiling at Richie as if to say that all was understood and forgiven, he rose to cross the room. As he walked away, Richie thought, _Why did I apologize? I’m mad at you. How do you do that to me?_

Methos came over to speak to Richie while Duncan was with Joe. “Joe’s prepared to make a deal, subject to Duncan’s consent.”

“A deal? Like what? I only get shot to death on alternate Tuesdays?”

“Nothing so exciting,” Methos said. “Joe’s willing to let you hear the tapes—at least the portions of the tapes where you’re discussed, which is presumably what you’re interested in—on the condition that you become part of the project. He’d like to hear your version of some of the things Duncan’s covered.” Richie opened his mouth to speak but Methos cut him off. “And before you jump in with both feet, I’d advise you to sleep on it for a night or six. Guest-starring on Immortals’ True Confessions can be damned uncomfortable.”

Joe and Duncan returned before Richie had a chance to say anything. “I assume Methos told you what I’ve been discussing with Mac?” Joe asked.

“Yes,” Richie answered slowly, trying to read Duncan’s expression. _He’s not sure he likes this. I’m not sure I like this, either. What the hell._ “I’ll do it.”

 

“You know, he could have asked Joe about the damned tapes in the first place,” Duncan said as he drove Methos back to the dojo.

“But then you would have known he was curious about them.”

“So?”

“You don’t get this, do you, MacLeod?” Methos shook his head in amazement. “This is all about _you_. Breaking in and listening to the tapes in secret was a safe way for him to find out what you really think of him. If he’d heard good things, no one would have ever known he’d doubted you. If he’d heard bad things, he could have crawled away and kept his pain to himself.”

“But Richie knows what I think of him.”

“Does he? Which Duncan MacLeod are we talking about here? You’ve known him for—what?—a little over five years?”

“Yes,” Duncan agreed, not seeing Methos’s point.

“And how many Duncan MacLeods has he seen in that time? Let’s see; first, you’re a total stranger, a sword-carrying psychotic who wants to kill him, then he finds out you’re Immortal, of all things, and you become a sort of combination employer, guardian, and parole officer. Before either of you quite realize it, you’re his father. Then bang!—Tessa dies and he dies, and suddenly he’s lost the only family he can remember and he’s Immortal. You become his teacher—a good teacher but a very demanding one—and then he takes his first head and you send him away. He comes back from time to time and _poof_ , you’re not his teacher anymore, you’re his friend, until one day when you genuinely become a sword-carrying psychotic and nearly kill him. He manages to get beyond that somehow until you _do_ kill him, well, not really him but the demon, and that whole situation has got to make him feel odd, too. Richie’s biggest problem is that he’s inherited your inability to see grey.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Duncan said tightly.

“I know exactly what I’m talking about. Everything’s still too black and white for both of you. You’re either his father or you’re not, his teacher or you’re not, his friend or you’re not. Why do those roles have to be so absolute, and so mutually exclusive?”

“I’m not his father,” Duncan growled.

Methos laughed, provoking Duncan to take the next turn more abruptly than usual. “If Joe called you in the middle of the night to say he’d shot me, would you have brought me one of your shirts? And washed all my booboos? You should have seen yourself; he might as well have been a toddler. You know, for a moment, I actually thought you were going to smack him for lying to you.”

“Richie’s not a child.”

“He’s not _a_ child, but he’s _your_ child. Take yourself back oh, 380 years. How would your father have reacted if you’d done what Richie did tonight?”

Duncan was silent for a moment, honestly considering the question, yet reluctant to yield to Methos. Finally, he said, “Richie is my friend.”

“And your father was never your friend?” Methos challenged. Duncan’s jaw tensed with anger. “No. That’s not a nice question, but I see I’ve made my point. Your father was your friend, your teacher, your leader and hero. Even when you’d grown to manhood and he sought your opinion, even when he relied on you, a part of you remained his son. If he was capable of being so many things to you, why do you imagine you’re incapable of being all those things for Richie?”

“This has nothing to do with you,” Duncan warned, but Methos, as usual, didn’t give a damn about offending Duncan MacLeod.

“You’re the one who wanted to know why he broke into Joe’s. You shouldn’t have asked the question if you weren’t prepared for the answer.” Duncan stared straight ahead without responding. “Oh, go ahead; get all broody on me. But if you can’t accept that you can be many things to one person, how’s Richie ever going to learn it? You’ve had your parents, and Connor, and Darius, and God knows who else to learn from. Almost everything Richie knows about living he’s gotten from you, in one guise or another. If you push him away saying, `I’m not your father,’ when you’ve treated him like a son, he’s going to be damned confused. And insecure. And that’s what this is all about. And I’m starving.”

Methos glanced sideways at Duncan, waiting for a response, but all he got was a tense silence. “Maybe I should go back to newborns,” he said in disgust.

“What?”

“Newborns. Very young Immortals, like Richie. I stopped teaching them because most of them don’t last very long in the Game. One does get attached, you know. So I gave it up. Thought I’d be better off dispensing my pearls of wisdom to unruly teenagers of four hundred or so.”

Duncan gave him a slit-eyed glare, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You are an unmitigated pain in the ass.”

“Fine. You can make breakfast.”

 

“So what am I supposed to do?” Duncan asked, as he placed a plate of pancakes in front of Methos.

“Do?”

“About Richie. You’re so full of sage advice today. Advise me.”

“Not much, actually. Mm, these are good. I suppose you’ll be revolted if I grab a beer from the fridge? Yes, I rather thought so. Well, don’t look, then.”

Methos got a beer from the refrigerator and opened it, ignoring Duncan’s grimace of amused disgust. “Yes. Well, all you really need to do is rid yourself of the compulsion to put tidy little labels on untidy relationships. You’re fond of Richie; the rest is irrelevant. If you try to cram a complex relationship into a simplistic pigeonhole, something gets left out and what does end up in the pigeonhole gets distorted by the lack of space.”

Duncan grinned. “I’d like to see the expression on Richie’s face when you try to explain that to him. He’ll tell you it’s a crock.”

“Yes, that does sound like Richie. Luckily, I don’t need to tell him anything. Nor will you, I suspect. If he keeps his bargain with Joe, he’ll soon know exactly what you’ve thought of him for all these years. That should take care of a good deal of his insecurity, provided you don’t come along afterwards and muck things up.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Sometimes Richie hears more than you say, which goes back to his poor self-esteem. You’ve certainly made progress in that area, but it takes a lot to undo the past. When you say something like, `I’m not your teacher anymore,’ or `I’m not your father,’ all you’re trying to tell him is that he’s a big boy now. That’s not what Richie hears. He thinks you’re saying you rather regret having been associated with him at all.”

Duncan shook his head sadly. “Four or five years ago, I would have agreed with you. But now—how many years is it going to take him to get it through his head that I’m not going to throw him away?”

“With luck, it won’t take more time than you have.” A silence fell between them as Methos remembered other times, other Immortals. _Letting yourself be loved can be such a difficult lesson..._

With a mental shake, Methos brought himself back to the present. “Just remember, you promised to stay away if Richie keeps his word tonight. I suspect Joe and I will have enough trouble getting him to talk without his worrying about what you’ll think of it.”

“I don’t want to hear what he tells you. It’s his business.”

“You’re not even the least bit curious?” Methos asked teasingly.

Ruefully, Duncan admitted, “Of course I’m curious. But I’ll let him have his privacy, at least from me. In any case, I have a dinner appointment tonight, so you and Joe are free to pick Richie’s brains without my interference.”

“Is she pretty?” Methos asked flippantly.

“ _He_ is an old friend,” Duncan corrected. “An _old_ friend. Peter Cunningham.”

“Don’t know him.”

“He was Sean’s student, although I’m actually the one who found him.”

 

_**FLASHBACK: FRANCE—1917** _

_This is my personal Hell,_ Duncan thought, as he slipped in the mud. _I cannot die, so my sins are punished here. Am I eternally condemned to walk these same battlefields, witnessing the destruction?_

He struggled to his feet and trudged on in the faint moonlight, looking for any survivors of the day’s “show”. Duncan had been carrying stretchers since sunrise, first of the living and now mostly of the dead. All of the wounded had already been cleared from the front trenches, but the no man’s land between armies was still littered with the fallen. As sometimes happened after a long day of battle, the survivors on both sides had ceased firing when darkness set in. Tonight there would be no snipers to worry about as he did his grisly work. When dawn arrived, a few warning shots would be fired to alert the rescuers and the informal truce would end.

Soldiers lay all around him, some peaceful-looking, some in grotesque attitudes, all of them far too still and quiet. _What I would give to hear screaming. At least it would mean some of them were alive._ He picked his way forward, sidestepping dismembered limbs and occasionally untangling heaps of bodies to search for survivors.

“There’s nothing,” one of his companions called. Even as Duncan nodded his head in grim agreement, he felt the chill cramp in his stomach and head that indicated the presence of another Immortal. He looked quickly about him, trying to locate the source, but saw only the men he’d been working with. One of the dead, then. One of these soldiers had just returned to life, possibly for the first time.

Evans, the man who’d just spoken to him, noticed Duncan’s sudden alertness. “You’ve sensed something and all, haven’t you?” he asked. Duncan shot him a sudden look of alarm which made Evans smile. “I’ve heard the others talking. They say you have the Sight. They say you’ve found men they would have buried.”

“It’s not the Sight,” Duncan protested weakly.

“Then what is it?” Evans persisted.

“I can’t explain what it is or how it works.”

“But sometimes you know,” Evans said. “Where is he, then?”

 _Now what do I do? If I lead him to the Immortal, half the army will be wanting me to tell their fortunes. Not to mention the fun I’ll have explaining away the lack of wounds. On the other hand, I can’t have a newborn Immortal wandering around not knowing what he is..._ “It’s that way, I think,” Duncan said, pointing to their left.

They set off in that direction, pausing frequently to check the bodies they passed for signs of life. “You sure about this?” Evans asked. “Doesn’t look like any of these poor buggers made it.”

“I’m sure,” Duncan said, stopping in front of a long heap of bodies. “He’s here.” Duncan began working his way into the heap with Evans’ assistance.

Evans looked doubtful now, but kept lifting away bodies with dogged persistence. He heard a faint moan nearby and nearly dropped a body in surprise. Hurrying forward, he bent to help Duncan pull the last body off a soldier so covered with mud and gore that it was difficult to make out any injuries. He knelt to check the soldier’s condition, but Duncan waved him away with an outstretched arm.

“It’s too late, then?” Evans asked.

“No,” Duncan replied. “He may have a concussion, but there’s no wound. He must have slipped in the mud and the others fell on him before he could get up.” _Thank God there were all these soldiers on top of him. Perhaps no one will pay much attention to the bullet holes in his uniform._ The muddied soldier lay there, silent and bewildered, apparently trying to gather his wits. Duncan touched the man’s cheek to get his attention before saying, “I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. And you are?”

An expression of horror flitted across the man’s face. His voice was barely audible as he admitted, “I don’t know.”

 

_**PRESENT** _

“Shell shock?” Methos asked.

Duncan nodded. “Not that anyone much cared. I took him to a dressing station and they sent him on to a field hospital, but the place was bursting at the seams. I lost track of him in the chaos and it took me four days to find him again.”

“They’d sent him to Sean?”

“They’d sent him back to the trenches.”

 

_**FLASHBACK: FRANCE—1917** _

“You’re the one who pulled me out of the muck, right? Have a fag.” Peter spoke a little too casually as he offered Duncan a cigarette while edging away from the men he’d been playing cards with. Duncan accepted the cigarette and let himself be led into the next stretch of trench where there might be some privacy.

“The hospital said you’d be here, but they wouldn’t give any details,” Duncan said. “You’ve been assigned to a new company?”

Peter smiled wryly. “Nothing left of the old one, or so I’m told.”

“You don’t remember?” Duncan asked.

“I was too busy fighting to count the dead,” Peter said, sounding slightly defensive.

“And the gas must have been bad, too.”

“It’s always pretty rotten,” Peter agreed, “but I got to my mask in time.”

“Funny,” Duncan said, “you weren’t wearing it when I found you. None of the soldiers were wearing gas masks.”

Peter stared at Duncan without speaking, looking trapped and confused.

“There was no gas-attack that day,” Duncan said gently. “You don’t remember a thing, do you?”

Peter quickly glanced away, nervously shuffling his feet. “Don’t tell anyone,” he pleaded.

“Peter, you shouldn’t be here.”

“I should be in hospital?” Peter suggested. “Hospital’s for men with wounds.”

“But if you can’t remember anything...”

“Then I should be sent away for a rest cure, to improve my nerves? There’s no need your making a fuss. Everyone in this bloody place has got a bit of shell shock. Maybe I’ve got more than some, but I’ve definitely got less than others. I may not remember who I am but I can sleep at night.”

“This isn’t right,” Duncan began, but Peter cut him off.

“I came over here to fight Fritz, and I mean to do just that.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he confided, “A colonel came by while I was in hospital. Said he thought I was a coward, that I’d dropped down in the mud to save my skin and wasn’t a sergeant at all; I’d taken the uniform off a corpse. I won’t have that said about me. And I’m all right; truly, I’m all right. Just a bit confused.”

“And the doctors let you come back?” Duncan asked incredulously.

“I told them I remembered. I’d seen my papers, same as they had, so I told them the name and rank on the papers and made up a load of rubbish about my life back in England. I wanted to go out again. Who would want to be in hospital with a lot of sick men screaming half the night?”

“But there must be someone here who remembers you,” Duncan protested.

Peter shook his head. “They’re all dead.”

“But don’t you want to know the truth?”

“Look around you,” Peter said. “None of us will live long enough for it to matter.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Duncan said. “Did you feel ill for a moment, just before you saw me?”

Peter blinked in surprise and said slowly, “I did have a bit of queer turn.”

Duncan glanced over his shoulder before continuing. “That’s how men like us recognize each other. I know this sounds far-fetched, but you’re Immortal now. You cannot die unless you lose your head.”

Peter stared at him for a long moment, then laughed. “Bloody hell! You’re the one who needs a rest cure.”

After checking once more to be sure they were alone, Duncan took out a knife, bared his left arm, and cut it deeply from wrist to elbow. Peter gasped in surprise as the quick slash was made and went utterly silent when the wound just as quickly healed itself. Wordlessly, he put his hand out for the knife, and Duncan gave it to him.

Peter made a tentative scratch in his own arm, watched it heal, and then made a serious wound. He stared down at it, dumbfounded, watching it heal. When he looked up at Duncan, there were tears in his eyes. “I died. I told one of the doctors that I died but he said... he said it wasn’t real.”

“It was real,” Duncan assured him. “I felt you come back to life.”

“Was it the first time?” Peter asked. “Have I... died before?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so. Peter, there are things you need to know. First, you’re safe on holy ground; we don’t fight there. Second...”

They were interrupted by one of the cardplayers. “Cunningham! Get a move on, lad; the captain wants us for something.”

Peter nodded at the man, then turned back to Duncan with a haunted expression in his eyes. “I have to go. Come back later,” he said urgently. “Please.”

 

_**PRESENT** _

“So where does Sean come into this?” Methos asked.

Duncan chuckled. “For an old man, you have very little patience.”

“Quite right. Don’t abuse it.”

Duncan smiled, then his expression suddenly grew serious. “The next time I saw Peter, he was dead again.”

“Uh-oh,” Methos said.

“Uh-oh,” Duncan agreed. “This time, he’d suffocated in the mud. It took me three nights’ worth of searching to find him.”

“Three days of suffocating to death over and over again,” Methos said. “That’s hard enough for an experienced Immortal. For a newborn...”

“Exactly. This time, there was no doubt he had a severe case of shell shock.”

“Did he tell the doctors he was Immortal?”

“He didn’t remember he was Immortal but he told everyone the monsters couldn’t cut off his head while he was on holy ground. He was obsessed with it. I was commended for saving him—again—and given detached duty for ten days. He didn’t remember me but the doctors had noticed he seemed calmer in my presence so I was assigned to escort him to an asylum.”

“Sean’s.”

Duncan nodded. “He eventually became Peter’s teacher.”

“I see,” said Methos. “And does Peter know who killed Sean?”

The images returned to Duncan unbidden. Sean, his trusting friend, who had tried to help one unfortunate too many. Tormented by a Dark Quickening, Duncan had gone to Sean, hoping the Immortal psychiatrist could rid him of that evil burden, and Sean had been willing to help. But the evil had been too strong, and Duncan had watched helplessly as the darkness inside him took his friend’s life and reveled in the destruction...

“No,” Duncan said. “Peter doesn’t know I killed him.”

 

* * *

 

“Mac,” Joe said as Duncan strolled into the bar. “I wasn’t expecting to see you this evening.”

Duncan grinned. “Don’t worry; I’m not staying. I just wanted to have a few words with you about tonight.”

“Look, if Richie changes his mind, I’m not going to make things awkward for him.”

“I didn’t think you would, Joe. Just don’t let Methos push him beyond where he wants to go. I don’t want Richie hurt.”

“I’ll look out for him, Mac. Promise.”

 

 _Maybe a pleasant evening with a friend is the best way to keep my mind off this Richie business,_ Duncan thought, as he was shown to a table. _I can’t be too protective of him; it’s not good for either of us._ “Peter!” he said with an easy smile. “I hope you’ve already picked a good wine.”

“I did take that liberty,” Peter said, grinning, as he rose to shake hands. “And if it’s wretched, don’t tell anyone. I don’t want to ruin my reputation.”

“So you still own a vineyard?”

“Through a proxy. I needed to remove myself from the scene for a generation or two. These days I’m a merchant of sorts. I’ve come to the States on a buying trip, to check out all these upstart American wines.”

“But you’re still based in France?”

“Absolutely. It’s the best place to live.”

 

_**FLASHBACK: FRANCE—1918** _

“I came as soon as I could,” Duncan said, as he closed the door to Sean’s office. “What’s happened?”

“Quite a lot, actually. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more specific in my letter, but I was worried about the censors.” Sean gestured Duncan to a chair, then began pacing in front of the windows.

“Is someone hunting you?” Duncan asked.

Sean smiled. “No, I don’t need your protection for myself. I have been known to wield a sword from time to time, you know.”

“I didn’t mean...”

“I know you didn’t. I need your help with Peter.”

“He’s gotten his memory back?”

Sean nodded. “As you know, he was a sergeant at the time of his first death. The men in his charge were mostly boys from his village that he’d known all their lives. He couldn’t bear to remember their annihilation so he obliterated it, along with the rest of his memories. It’s taken me months to unearth that.”

“If I’d gotten him to you sooner...”

“You did what you could, Duncan. His second death probably made my job harder, but it was never an easy job to begin with. I sent for you because there are... complications. Peter has a wife and three children in England.”

“You didn’t know that before?” Duncan asked.

“To be brutally honest, I didn’t try to find out,” Sean replied. “Being Immortal... changes everything. Loved ones become hostages to fortune, home becomes a place we can only visit every few generations for fear of being recognized... there can be no lasting roots. I thought no good could come of forcing an identity on Peter that he could neither remember nor safely resume.

“Peter was officially reported dead after his second death, although I didn’t learn that until a few weeks ago. I sent for you because he wanted to go back to England to see his wife, even though she believes him dead.”

“Is that wise? Of course I’ll go with him—I know he’s not ready to be out in the Game—but how is he going to explain his Immortality to her?”

Sean sighed. “You could ask him that yourself, if he were here.”

“He didn’t,” Duncan said in alarm.

“He did. He went off on his own sometime last night. I’d already acquired the necessary papers for his travel and he broke into my office and took them.” Sean went to his desk and rummaged among the papers lying there. “I wrote to his wife nearly a month ago, when Peter’s memory returned. When there was no response, I sent a wire to the postmistress in his village. She informed me that the wife had gone to London with her new husband.”

“Does Peter know she’s remarried?”

“Yes,” Sean said. “He also knows the children aren’t his own. He took that bit of news surprisingly well. He seems to think she may have been unfaithful because she was desperate for children and had begun to wonder if he couldn’t give her any—they’d been married six years before their oldest came along. He seems convinced she’ll want him again, Immortality and all.”

“If he’s wrong...”

“All the more reason for you to find him as quickly as possible. Here are the travel documents you’ll need; I’ve pulled some strings and arranged a short leave for you. This is where I think Peter’s gone,” Sean said, handing Duncan a bundle of papers. “I’d go myself, but I’m needed here. There are so many Peters... and many of them are much worse off.”

“I’ll bring him back to you,” Duncan promised.

“I know you will. Thank you.”

 

_**FLASHBACK: LONDON—1918** _

_What if he’s not there?_ Duncan wondered for the thousandth time, as the taxi slowly made its way across the city. _How am I supposed to track down one young Immortal in all of London? What if he’s not even in England?_

He sensed the distant presence of an Immortal as the taxi reached its destination. _Please let it be Peter,_ he thought, as he paid off the driver. _Now is not the time for a fight. If it’s not Peter, then let it be a friend, or at least not an enemy. Be someone like Connor or Fitz; I could use some help on this fool’s errand._

As the taxi drove off, Duncan realized that the sensation was coming from the church nearby, not the house in front of him. _Holy ground? As good a place as any to meet a strange Immortal._

He edged into the cool dimness of the church and saw Peter standing barely twenty feet away from him, looking alarmed by Duncan’s arrival. After a quick glance around to make sure they were alone, Duncan swooped down on Peter in a few angry strides.

“Where have you been?” Duncan asked.

“To see my wife and children,” Peter said, with a dullness belied by the pain in his eyes. He had obviously been weeping. “Actually, to see someone else’s wife and children.”

Duncan looked sympathetic as he took Peter’s elbow and sat him down on a pew, but he was still annoyed. “Anyone could have taken your head.”

“Yes, they could have,” Peter said calmly. “Do you imagine I’d care?”

“Sean would care and so would I,” Duncan said fiercely. He sighed heavily before continuing, “Peter, as bad as you feel right now, one day you might wish you’d been more careful.”

Peter looked at him blankly, then the ghost of a smile played across his lips. “You mean if I lost my head now I might live to regret it?”

Duncan smiled in spite of himself. “Something like that. Where do you want to go? We’ve got time to visit your village, although Sean wouldn’t approve.”

“No; let’s go back to France,” Peter said. “My life is there now. There’s nothing for me in England.”

 

_**PRESENT** _

“You still miss her,” Duncan said gently.

“Oh, yes,” Peter replied. “We never stop caring about the ones we love. Even when they betray us. And I still think of Sean, of course. We hadn’t been that close in the last few years, but that was my fault, my weakness. I should have trusted him more.”

“Sometimes we push away the people we need most, without even meaning to.”

“Duncan,” Peter said hesitantly, “this may not be the best moment to bring it up, but... I know you’ve done a lot for me already... oh, this is useless. I didn’t come here for old times’ sake, although it’s good to see you, of course. I need a favor, Duncan, rather a large one. I want you to take my head.”

“You can’t be serious,” Duncan protested. “Why?”

“I can’t live with myself anymore, and I’d rather my Quickening went to one of the good ones. Duncan... I killed Sean.”

 

 _Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,_ Joe thought, as he watched Richie listening to one of the tapes. _I tried to pick something “easy”—the last thing I’d want to do is start with something like Tessa’s death—but I’m not sure how he’s taking this._

Things had begun comfortably enough, with Joe quietly explaining that he’d record Richie’s reactions on one tape recorder while playing tapes on another. At the start of the project, Methos had wanted to make videorecordings but Joe had vetoed that idea. It was hard enough to ignore the presence of a tape recorder; shoving a camera in someone’s face would torpedo any chance of getting relaxed, spontaneous conversation. “It’s not supposed to be the damned Inquisition,” Joe had insisted, and Methos had quietly if unhappily relented.

This particular tape had begun with some banter between Duncan and Methos on Immortality, and Richie had grinned widely while listening to Methos recount one of his funerals that he’d attended in disguise. That discussion had segued into a debate on how much Immortals should associate with pre-Immortals. Although the voices on the tape sounded good-natured while they rehashed a familiar argument, Richie had tensed slightly as he realized where the conversation was heading.

Joe looked over at Methos, who nodded minutely as if thinking, _Yes, I saw. He’s on edge._ Richie shifted uneasily on the couch and wondered how soon he could leave Joe’s office without getting teased about it later.

On the tape, Methos’s voice was saying, “Being acquainted with pre-Immortals is one thing, MacLeod. What you did goes far beyond that. Yes, the transition to Immortality is easier if someone they’ve known from before can explain things. But you weren’t just an acquaintance. You gave the boy a home. You got attached. That isn’t practical.”

“Actually, it was very practical.” Richie could hear a hint of anger in Duncan’s voice. “Richie was nearly eighteen when we took him in. Tessa and I could have done nothing, walked away, forgotten all about Richie. And within weeks, he would have been arrested again, but this time as an adult, and he would have gone to prison. Not a juvenile detention center; prison. I think you’ve lived long enough to guess what would have happened there. Richie was damaged enough when we took him in; if he’d gone to prison, I don’t think there would have been anything left of him. He would have become a monster, and the last thing any of us needs is an Immortal monster.”

“Mac’s right,” Joe’s voice chimed in. “I’ve seen all the old paperwork on Richie—police, social workers, school files, hospital records—and he was about half a step ahead of disaster.”

Richie sat there motionless, silently rigid with tension, while his brain absorbed the fizzing shock of realizing Joe knew as much about his childhood as he did. _More, maybe; I don’t remember some of the foster homes too clearly. How much has he told Mac? Stop this..._

The tape ground on remorselessly. Methos was saying with amusement, “Sounds like he hasn’t changed much.”

Everyone laughed, then Duncan said, “Oh, he’s changed incredibly. I don’t think he trusted anyone when I first met him. He had quite a smart mouth on him, Mister Tough Guy, but underneath was a good kid who’d been hurt too often.

“We had to be so careful in the beginning, not to hurt his pride, not to push too much, not to show too much affection. He’d shy away if you paid him a compliment or reached out to pat him on the shoulder. He simply didn’t know how to handle it.

“Then all of a sudden he changed. He’d been making progress for some time, become more sure of himself, but one day he just... blossomed. He smiled more easily; he wasn’t so wary of physical contact; he actually started touching me, kissing Tessa. The funny thing is, it happened not too long after a conversation where I’d come down on him pretty hard for taking a foolish risk. I’d gone too far and really scared him; I remember him standing there wide-eyed, like a frightened animal, afraid to move. I tried to smooth things over as soon as I realized what I’d done, but inside I was cursing myself for losing my temper and undoing all the progress we’d made. I expected him to regress after that, but he didn’t. Maybe once he’d seen my anger and realized he could survive it, he relaxed.

“Richie’s changed so much, overcome so much. Sometimes I think, if I had known... if I’d known about Richie, and that Tessa and I would have so many years away from the Game... I could have given Tessa the child she wanted; we could have taken Richie in not long after Emily Ryan’s death. Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to have gotten him before other people hurt him, when he was still small enough to cuddle in our laps.”

Richie felt the heat rising in his face, and fought a pricking sensation in his eyes. _Oh, Mac, I didn’t know,_ Richie thought, as he struggled to maintain his composure. _How can you talk about this stuff so calmly, so easily, like you’re not ripping open your soul? Like it doesn’t matter if the whole world knows your feelings? How am I supposed to do that?_

With effort, he refocused his attention on the tape, just in time to hear Methos saying, “... deluding yourself into thinking he would have been your little angel.”

Both Joe and Duncan chuckled, then Duncan said, “I know better than that.”

Methos’s voice persisted, “I just can’t imagine you raising a small child, Duncan. It can be quite a lot of trouble, you know.”

Duncan said, “I would have taken him in diapers,” with an affectionate simplicity that left Richie breathless.

 _I’ve got to get out of here before I lose it,_ Richie thought. On the tape, Joe was saying something and Duncan was replying but Richie didn’t listen, couldn’t listen. _Why can you tell them things you can’t tell me?_

Joe pressed a button and Duncan’s voice fell silent. “Richie? Are you all right?” Methos asked.

 _No. I’m not all right. I think I’m going to throw up. Shoot me again, Joe; give me some excuse to be anywhere but in this room. Methos warned me, but I thought he was just trying to scare me off._ Richie glanced at Methos, expecting him to be annoyed by his weakness or smug about being proved right, but his face held nothing but patient understanding. _He’s done this. He knows how hard it is. What has Joe asked him?_

“I’m okay,” Richie lied. “It’s just... a little more personal than I was expecting.”

 _Okay, so now’s not a good time to discuss what sort of childhood you might have had with Mac and Tessa,_ Joe thought. _Let’s go back to something that’s simply a matter of factual recall._ “Do you remember the conversation Mac was talking about?” he asked.

If anything, Richie became even more uncomfortable. _What have I done?_ Joe wondered. _I thought you’d be a little embarrassed, but I wasn’t expecting this. I was watching you two that day in the alley and I’ve always wondered what happened after he took you inside, but it can’t have been that bad; Mac would have told me. Wouldn’t he have?_

Richie could feel Joe watching him closely, trying to decide if he was pushing too hard, too soon. _Oh, yes, I remember that day. Vividly._ He took a slow, careful breath, then another. _Okay, Joe, we made a deal. This much, at least, I’ll give you._

“I remember,” Richie said, “although I wouldn’t call it a conversation. He yelled at me.” He paused, gathering the courage to say more.

“He scared you?” Methos prodded gently.

“Yeah. He scared me. I’d never seen him that mad before. I... usually, when somebody yelled at me like that, I’d wind up at Social Services or maybe the Emergency Room. But he didn’t hit me, and he didn’t kick me out. He calmed down and sort of apologized and I got the impression he’d been mad because he was worried about me. I was kind of confused by it all. I mean, let’s face it; I wasn’t the sort of kid people worried about.”

“And that’s when things changed between you?” Joe asked.

Richie Ryan, teenaged thief, would have lied to him, but this Richie couldn’t. “No. That was when, more or less, but not why. Later on, Mac set up a trap for this psycho guy, with Tessa as the bait. It didn’t come off the way he’d planned, and he told me to take Tessa and get out of there. Only I didn’t leave right away, like I was supposed to. I stopped to disable this guy’s bike and he came after me.” Richie’s mouth had suddenly turned dry, now that he was coming to the hard part.

“Tessa ran him down to save you,” Joe said. “I remember the Watcher’s report.”

“She saved me,” he agreed. “She hit the guy and was pretty upset by the whole thing. We went back to the store and Mac was talking to her about it, trying to make her feel better, when he found out the whole thing had happened because I hadn’t left when he told me to. He didn’t say anything at the time, but he gave me this look... I knew I’d blown it, big time. That I’d been wrong about him being worried about me.

“I’d seen his type before. They yell at you, maybe beat you, and then act like they’re sorry, ’cause they want to think of themselves as good guys. Then they’re all smiles, only the next thing you know, they’ve found some very logical reason why you just aren’t fitting in. Time to hit the road, kid.”

“So what happened next?” Methos asked.

Richie sighed. “I went to my room; slipped away when they weren’t paying attention. I knew the big farewell speech was coming, but I was tired and my leg hurt and I just couldn’t face it right then. I went to bed but I didn’t sleep. I guess I was too busy calling myself an idiot for thinking Mac and Tessa might have been different.

“It got late. I heard them switch off the TV after the news. Tessa was saying something about me, but the only part I caught was my name. Then someone tapped on my door. I didn’t want to talk to them, so I didn’t do anything. I was hoping they’d think I was asleep and leave me alone. The door opened, and Mac called my name softly. I didn’t answer him; I just lay there thinking, `Go away’.

“But he didn’t leave. I heard him come over to the bed, and then there was nothing for a minute. I could feel him looking down at me, and I fought to keep my breathing slow and steady even thought my heart was pounding.” Richie hesitated, caught up once again in the panic of that moment.

“You were afraid,” Methos said. “You thought he was going to beat you?”

“Not that he would beat me,” Richie answered slowly. “I could have taken that.”

“That he’d reject you,” Joe suggested.

Richie nodded, because he didn’t trust his voice anymore. _Just a bit further,_ he thought, while looking at the floor, his hands, anything but their faces. _These guys are your friends. They won’t make fun of you._

“So what actually happened? Anything?” Methos asked.

 _They’re your friends._ “He bent down and kissed me on the forehead. For a second, I thought maybe I’d gotten it wrong, that it was Tessa kissing me goodnight—she’d kissed me on the cheek a couple of times—but then I caught the smell of Mac’s aftershave.”

Richie glanced up, half-expecting them to laugh, knowing they sometimes still thought of him as a kid. Joe had a faraway look in his eye, as if remembering a sentimental moment from his own past. Methos’s smile had a dangerous quirk to it, and Richie hoped he wouldn’t tease Mac about what he’d said. _Maybe I should stop here? I’ve given them excuse enough. No; I promised them I’d tell it all._

“After he kissed me, I heard Tessa chuckle, but she sounded further away, as if she’d come to the doorway and seen the whole thing only by chance.

“Mac whispered, `Don’t tease me. He nearly got himself killed today.’

“Tessa said, `I know.’ I could hear Mac walking away from me when she said, `When did it happen, Duncan? When did he become our Richie?’ ”

“Mac said `I’m not sure. All I know is that I couldn’t bear to lose him.’ Then his voice got less serious and he said, `And how do you like having a little boy, Miss Noel?’ ”

“She chuckled again, but her voice was muffled, like maybe Mac was holding her and nuzzling her neck. She said, `He’s a big boy, and I love it,’ then they left my room and shut the door.”

“And you wept,” Joe said. It was a statement, not a question.

 _Damn you. For a nice guy, you can be a real bastard._ “Yes,” Richie admitted.

“Why?” Methos asked. Richie wondered where he’d acquired a talent for making the most innocent-sounding words seem deadly.

“I don’t know,” Richie forced out. “I was all mixed up; it was just too much. I felt so dumb... I should have seen it coming...”

“Oh, you saw it, all right,” Joe countered. “You just didn’t believe it. You wouldn’t let yourself believe it, because of the way you’d been treated in the past.”

Richie nodded stiffly. “Other places I’d been, sometimes, the people acted nice but it was only on the surface. I thought maybe Mac and Tessa weren’t like that, but I wasn’t really sure, and then I screwed up and I thought it was over, but then...” He struggled for control as the tears he’d been fighting spilled over. He swallowed convulsively and went on. “The things they said when they thought I was asleep, when there wasn’t any reason to act nice... I was so ashamed of myself for not trusting them... and I was so happy... I fell asleep thinking, `Somebody wants me.’ ”

Richie looked up and saw Joe regarding him with compassion, with the sort of all-embracing acceptance that demands confidences. Sometimes Joe seemed older than any of them, even Methos. And Methos—this time he wasn’t wearing his “I’m planning something and you aren’t going to like it” grin. His face was impassive, carefully controlled, but his eyes hinted at some inner pain. Perhaps he knew what it was like to be nothing, to feel alone and unwanted, then suddenly find yourself loved?

 

“No, I don’t remember doing it, but I... I’ve had nightmares about Sean’s death,” Peter said. “I think they’re repressed memories trying to resurface. I’ve forgotten things before, when it was convenient.”

“Not because it was convenient; because you had to, in order to survive. Blaming yourself for Sean’s death is wrong. I know you weren’t responsible. I won’t take your head.”

“If you don’t, then someone else will, and soon. Someone’s been tracking me. Six weeks ago, I was attacked by mortals but managed to escape. I don’t know who they were working for or what they wanted but I wouldn’t be surprised if one of us is behind it. Sean was one of the best; there must be at least a few Immortals who’d avenge him if they could. But if it’s not one of the good ones who’s stalking me... I can’t take that risk. I want my Quickening to go to you.”

The waiter returned with Duncan’s credit card, temporarily silencing their conversation. Duncan signed his name absently, remembering Keane. _You’re right about other Immortals wanting to avenge Sean’s death. I would have done it myself, if I could._ “Let’s go back to my place.”

“Then you’ll do it?” Peter asked hopefully.

“We need to talk,” Duncan said. _Yeah, we can discuss who really killed your teacher. If there was ever a time when I needed some of Richie’s talent for fast talking..._

It was beginning to rain steadily as they left the restaurant. Peter turned up his collar saying, “Just as depressing as the weather in Scotland. No wonder you like it here,” with a grin.

Duncan was about to defend Scotland’s honor when he was stunned by a sharp blow to the head. Instinctively, he twisted to lash out at his attacker but he was already losing consciousness. He heard a muffled curse as he fell to the sidewalk. _Good. Just wait ’til I wake up and then you’ll really be sorry._

 

Duncan woke in near-darkness, bound and gagged. He was lying in the back of a large van or truck, judging by the noise and occasional bumps as they hit potholes. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could make out the shape of another man, similarly bound, lying near him—Peter. _Who’s responsible for this? Hunters? Does Peter even know of the Watchers’ existence?_

Peter groaned and shifted slightly as he returned to consciousness. A shape appeared suddenly in the darkness to check Peter; at least one of their captors was with them.

“Have a nice nap?” the man asked, with a sarcastic pleasantness that made Duncan tense against his bonds. The man must have sensed the movement, because he suddenly shifted his attention to Duncan. He raised his gun and said, “Don’t. There’s no need for things to get unfriendly. Your buddy here is worth a small fortune. Once we’ve gotten the ransom, he’ll go free. As for you—well, if you’re worth something, we’ll let you go, too. If not... well, I’m sure all of the pieces will turn up eventually.”

 

* * *

 

 _If this is Watcher business, it had better be important,_ Joe thought, trying to disentangle himself from the sheets before the answering machine picked up. He grabbed the phone just in time and said, “Dawson,” with only slightly more irritation than he felt. Mornings were always hell.

“Joe? It’s Richie. Mac’s been kidnapped.”

“What?!” Joe said, as he came more fully awake. “When?”

“Last night, when he was with that friend of his. I got a call just now, with a taped message from Mac. It’s a ransom demand. Apparently, they were after Peter but decided they might as well make some dough off Mac, too.”

“Why in the hell haven’t my people told me?” Joe said angrily.

“How would I know? I was hoping maybe your guys had followed the kidnappers and could give me some clues.”

“You going to have any trouble getting the ransom?” Joe asked.

“No, Mac gave me authorization to use some of his accounts a long time ago, in case of emergency. This definitely qualifies. Listen, I’ll come by the bar later to see if your Watchers have anything.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Joe promised. “Take care, Rich.”

 

“The least they could do is feed us,” Duncan grumbled. He and Peter sat back to back, tied to chairs in the middle of an abandoned warehouse.

“Stop complaining,” Peter said. “You’re the one who wanted to cooperate with them.”

“They had a gun to your head. What was I supposed to do, say, ‘Go ahead, shoot my friend, he’s Immortal?’ You know damned well that neither of us can afford to get any mysteriously healing wounds in public.”

“The one who calls himself John does seem a little fixated on the idea of cutting us into bits,” Peter admitted. “Perhaps they haven’t fed us because they don’t mean to keep us long. After all, the ransom demands weren’t extravagant; they seem to have chosen an amount that could be gathered quickly.”

“If Richie’s at home, for a change,” Duncan muttered darkly.

“That’s your assistant?”

 _Not exactly, Peter, but I’m not going to explain things right now,_ Duncan thought. _If the kidnappers think he’s only some employee of mine, they won’t be interested in him. I’m sure you wouldn’t tell them anything voluntarily, but..._ Duncan forced that thought aside and answered Peter’s question. “Yes. He used to manage the dojo and still has access to some of my accounts. Completely honest with money, but likes to wander on his motorcycle.”

Peter chuckled. “A motorcycle? Sounds a lot less stuffy than my business manager.”

“Oh, he is. Doesn’t have much snob appeal, but he’s good with the books and he knows how to mind his own business.”

“So he won’t call the police?”

Duncan smiled. “No, he won’t do that. What about your business manager?”

“Emile would never dream of disobeying me.”

 _Wish I could say the same for Rich,_ Duncan thought. He was about to speculate on their chances of survival when one of the kidnappers approached them from the far end of the warehouse. It was the man they were most familiar with, the one who had sneeringly called himself John Smith. Duncan thought of him simply as “HIM.” _Perhaps not the brains of the organization, but definitely the man in charge of the ones doing the dirty work._ Duncan tensed when he recognized his katana held loosely in John’s hand.

“You two have very interesting toys,” the man said to Duncan. “Is this how the rich get their excitement? Carrying swords and pretending they’re the Three Musketeers?”

Duncan remained obstinately silent. John snorted, saying, “Coward,” but that also failed to get a rise out of Duncan, so he moved into Peter’s field of vision. “And what about you? Is this your idea of excitement? Of danger?”

“My idea of danger is smuggling people out of Occupied France,” Peter said lightly, “but I haven’t tried that one in about fifty years.”

 

_**FLASHBACK: FRANCE—1942** _

“I don’t like doing this in the daytime,” Duncan complained, as he and Sean creaked along in a horse-drawn wagon loaded with casks of wine.

“You know we’d be far too conspicuous at night. If we’re stopped, let me do the talking. I’m a familiar face around here since I own the bloody vineyard. The Nazis aren’t going to remember what all my workmen look like, so you should be safe enough.”

“I’ve never made wine,” Duncan mused.

“Too damned busy working on the women, probably. God knows you’re none too proficient in the `song’ department.”

“Some people like my voice,” Duncan said indignantly.

“Your mother doesn’t count.”

“And what do you know about singing?” Duncan demanded. His brogue was starting to show.

“My first wife—my sweet Lizbet—could sing like an angel.” Peter seemed to lose himself in the memory of her, and Duncan inwardly kicked himself for opening an old wound. He was grateful to see the farmhouse coming into view beyond the trees.

“Isn’t that the place?” Duncan asked. Peter nodded silently and turned down the lane.

He pulled the wagon into the shelter of a small barn, where he and Duncan began unloading the wagon with the farmer’s help. Two small heads peeped curiously around the edge of the barn door, only to be pulled away by a housewife busily scolding in French.

When they’d removed enough casks to reveal the hiding place in the wagon, the farmer disappeared, returning with the Allied pilot they’d been hiding.

Just then, two motorcycles and a car rushed down to the farmhouse. German soldiers leapt from the vehicles, raising their weapons.

“You will put up your hands and show us your papers,” a young officer shouted in execrable French, only to be shot the next moment by the housewife. The farmer had also produced a weapon, seemingly out of nowhere, and Duncan lunged for the wagon to get the guns they’d hidden there. Peter shoved the bewildered pilot to the ground and accepted a weapon from Duncan just as the housewife was struck by a bullet. The soldier who’d shot her fell dead to the ground; Duncan wasn’t sure which of them had hit him.

The farmer was killed as another soldier fell, and the housewife screamed. Turning towards Duncan and the pilot, Peter shouted, “Get him out of here!”

“Peter...”

“Now! While you still have a chance to get away. I’ll delay them as much as I can.”

Yielding to the logic of the situation, Duncan promised, “I’ll be back for you,” then forced the protesting pilot through a side door and into the cover of the surrounding woods.

 

_**PRESENT** _

“World War II, right?” John said sarcastically. “You do live in a fantasy world.”

“He’s very well-preserved,” Duncan explained. “All that wine.”

Peter laughed, displeasing the kidnapper. “I’ve wanted to try this out,” John said, slowly waving the katana in tantalizing circles. “Doesn’t look like I’m going to get the chance now. Maybe another day, once you’ve had time to grow rich again?”

He placed the point of the katana just under Peter’s chin, forcing his head up. “Yes, we’ll do business together another time. If you live,” he said, and then walked away laughing.

“I think he likes you,” Duncan said. “Maybe he prefers blonds.”

“Very funny. Perhaps they’ll let us go, soon.”

“Unless they decide to kill us anyway, once they’ve got the ransom,” Duncan said morosely. “We’ve seen their faces.”

“Duncan,” Peter said with a smile, “we’re not going to die. I can’t. We’re not in France.”

 

_**FLASHBACK: FRANCE—1942** _

Duncan had returned to the village as soon as he’d taken the pilot to the next safehouse. A few discreet inquiries told him what he’d feared: all of the occupants of the farm had been killed as a warning to other would-be Resistance fighters. He’d waited for nightfall before making his way quietly to the cemetery.

He groped his way along the row of fresh graves in the darkness before finding the one that beckoned him. Casting a furtive glance about him to check for onlookers, he began digging.

By the time he’d reached Peter’s corpse, the moon had come out from behind the clouds. _Please don’t let us be seen,_ he prayed, _I’ve got enough of a mess on my hands as it is._ As he’d expected, there was no coffin; firewood would be scarce enough this winter without wasting potential fuel on the dead. Duncan hurried to brush away the remaining dirt before Peter could revive and begin screaming.

Duncan felt a sudden jolt as Peter returned to life, coughing and choking and thrashing out blindly with his arms. Duncan quickly clamped a hand over Peter’s mouth to muffle any sound, and held his ground while Peter struggled wildly beneath him.

“Peter!” he hissed. “It’s Duncan. You have to be quiet.”

After a moment, Peter relaxed and Duncan took his hand away. “That’s better,” Duncan said with approval. Peter struggled to his knees and Duncan supported him gently while Peter retched and coughed as quietly as he could, trying to rid himself of the dirt inhaled during previous attempts to free himself. “We have to hide you until we can get you some papers. Come with me.” He offered Peter a handkerchief.

“How did I end up here?” Peter asked, while wiping his face and eyes.

“The Nazis shot you.”

“Who?” Peter asked, as Duncan pushed him over the lip of the grave.

Duncan froze momentarily, before climbing out of the grave with Peter’s assistance. “Peter,” he said carefully, “what year is it?”

“1918,” Peter replied, looking frightened. “It’s not, is it? Oh, God, what have I forgotten this time?”

“Calm down, Peter; you’ll be all right,” Duncan assured him. “I was thinking of taking you to Sean, anyway. Come this way, and no loud noises.” Duncan set off towards the south, hoping that physical exertion might dampen Peter’s panic.

Either his tactic worked or Peter made an effort to compose himself. “So who are the Nazis and what year is it?” he asked conversationally, as if the answers were of no great importance.

“They’re Germans and it’s 1942. We’re in France.”

“France,” Peter said with bleak humor. “The best place to live. And the best place to die. Duncan MacLeod is always around to dig me up.”

 

_**PRESENT** _

“If there’s one thing I hate, it’s sitting around waiting to get killed,” Peter said. “Say, whatever happened to that student of yours? Sean said you were teaching a young man with red hair.”

Duncan smiled to himself. “He’s still in the Game. Writes romance novels, if you can believe it.”

“No!” Peter chuckled. “Some teacher you are. Well, at least he’d get the swordfighting scenes right. How much longer do you think it will take them to get the ransom?”

“Not much longer, I hope. Peter?”

“Mm?”

“Have you ever heard of a Dark Quickening?”

“Why, yes,” Peter said, “Sean told me about them. That’s where you kill someone really evil and after that you grow hair and three-inch fangs whenever the moon’s full.”

“Peter! This is serious.”

“Sorry. Yes, I have heard of them, but Sean wasn’t sure whether they were real or not.”

“They’re real,” Duncan said grimly. “Once, there was an Immortal named Coltec.”

“He was a healer?” Peter said uncertainly. “Sean mentioned him, I think.”

“Yes, he was a healer,” Duncan agreed. “A special kind of healer. He had the power to absorb the darkness and hatred and anger in other men’s souls. He did it for me once, after the murder of some people I loved.”

“He must have had a great power,” Peter said quietly.

“Yes, he did, but one day, the evil became too much even for him to absorb. He became evil... and I had to kill him... and then I became evil myself. I took a Dark Quickening,” Duncan said. The shame in his voice was palpable.

“What was it like?” Peter asked, transfixed.

“I... the person I’d been was trapped, squashed down, overpowered by more hatred than I’d ever seen or felt, even in battle. There was so much rage... and so much pleasure in hurting others... somewhere deep inside me, the real me was fighting to get out, but the Darkness was so strong. I would have killed my student if a mortal friend hadn’t shot me to death, and I nearly took the friend’s head when I revived. Being dead seemed to weaken the monster for a little while, so I decided to run away before I could hurt anyone else I cared about. But I knew I needed help.”

“What did you do?” Peter asked in a near-whisper.

“I called Sean and asked for his help, but when I got there... it was too strong, Peter; I couldn’t stop it,” Duncan said, struggling to control his emotions. “It made me take his head and it laughed at me while I did it.”

“So it wasn’t me,” Peter said.

“No. I’m sorry, Peter. Sorry that I killed Sean and sorry that I didn’t tell you about it before now. After I killed Sean, a friend found me and took me to a holy spring, where I was healed. Since then... I’ve tried so hard to forget what happened...”

“Duncan,” Peter interrupted, “it’s all right. I believe you. I’ve known you most of my life. I know you’re not a killer, I know that Sean was your friend, and I know you’d never take his head by choice. Oh, God, I’m so relieved... all this time I thought it was me.” He swallowed, then said, “I’m sorry; I know that sounds insensitive, but I’ve been so afraid... so afraid I hurt that gentle man and didn’t even have the guts to remember it.”

“Peter, if I’d known...”

“It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you found yourself again and that Sean’s at rest with someone good.”

 _How good am I?_ Duncan wondered. _Why do I survive, when Immortals like Darius and Sean have perished?_

 

“Any luck?” Joe asked, as a weary-looking Methos entered the bar carrying a map.

“Nothing. Driving around hoping to sense another Immortal is basically futile.”

“Then why’d you agree to help Richie do it?”

“It’s as good a way as any to kill time while we wait,” Methos replied. “Besides, what else do we have to go on? All we can do is start from the place where your Watchers lost the kidnappers and hope for the best. Ah, that should be Richie,” he said, turning expectantly to the door.

Richie entered, looking pale but determined. “I got zip,” he said.

“Only to be expected,” Methos said. “Show me what you covered.”

Richie and Methos consulted over the map for a few minutes, then Richie turned to Joe. “Anything worthwhile in the Watcher files?” he asked.

“Not much,” Joe said. “Someone has been stalking Peter, but that’s really all we know. Whether it’s Hunters or Immortals or somebody else, they’re using mortals to do their dirty work and they’re hiding their tracks well. I’ve got some people ready to help follow the ransom after it’s dropped.”

“That’s a bit unorthodox,” Methos remarked.

“The Watchers need to know where Mac and Peter are, even if we’re not allowed to do anything,” Joe said.

“And if you just happen to pick up the phone and let us know what you know...” Richie suggested.

“The folks at headquarters will have a fit,” Joe admitted. “This is new?”

 

“Good news, children,” John said, as he walked over to Duncan and Peter. Four men followed in his wake, their weapons at the ready. “The ransom’s been paid. It’s time for you two to return to fantasy-land. Untie them,” he instructed the nearest two kidnappers, before turning back to Duncan and Peter. Waving a finger, he said, “No tricks, now.”

John and two of his men trained their guns on Peter and Duncan while the other two men cautiously untied Peter. “Thank you,” Peter said formally. They began untying Duncan. “No, not him,” Peter said. “Kill him.”

Duncan’s head whipped around in surprise. “Sorry,” Peter said, with genuine regret. Duncan stared at him in mute disbelief.

“It’s not part of the deal,” John said.

“You’ll be paid extra for your trouble,” Peter said, in a bored voice. No one leapt to obey him. In annoyance, he yanked a gun away from one of the kidnappers and shot Duncan twice in the chest, then turned to John. “There; all you have to do now is get rid of the body. In pieces. You did tell me you handle disposals, for a fee. I can pay.”

“You already have,” John said, and shot Peter in the forehead.

As Duncan died, he heard the kidnappers laughing as they left.

 

 _He’s got to be alive,_ Methos thought, as he began covering a new section of the map. _I’ve put too damned much effort into keeping him alive to lose him now._ He began a mental accounting of just how much trouble Duncan MacLeod had put him through, and was startled when his cell phone rang.

He grabbed the phone and said, “Talk.”

“It’s Joe. We’re following the package now but it’s headed far out of your area.”

“It may not be going to the same place they are,” Methos said, careful not to discuss their situation too specifically on a cell phone.

“I know. Do you want to take a chance on following it?”

Methos thought briefly, then said, “Tell Richie to stick to his original plan. I’ll follow the package.”

 

Duncan revived and looked around himself. _Good, the kidnappers are gone. Here’s hoping they don’t decide to come back and dispose of our bodies._ He finished freeing himself while thinking, _Why? I would have trusted Peter with my life. Hell, I did trust him with my life, when we were in the Resistance together. If he needs to avenge Sean, I can accept that, but why do it this way?_

Duncan slowly made his way to the far end of the warehouse. _Our swords must be here somewhere, unless the kidnappers took them when they left. God knows they spent enough time playing with them. There._ He picked up his katana and Peter’s sword and reluctantly walked back to Peter, who was just reviving.

“Those bloody kidnappers,” Peter said. “Never hire anyone stupid. I told them I’d hired someone else to make sure they wouldn’t run off with the ransom, but did they believe me?”

Tossing Peter’s sword down in front of him, Duncan said, “Why, Peter? Because I killed Sean?”

Peter slowly rose to his feet, looking defeated. He held his sword loosely, not wanting to begin the fight which now seemed inevitable. “Not because you killed him. Because you have his Quickening.”

“What’s the difference?” Duncan asked, confused.

“You know what Sean was,” Peter said. “You know what he did.” He and Duncan began circling each other, slowly, tentatively, neither of them ready to lift his sword to an attack stance.

“I don’t understand.”

“You have his Quickening, Duncan. His power. His knowledge. His memories. His secrets.”

“Peter, I wouldn’t know how to retrieve Sean’s memories even if I wanted them. Whatever secrets he had died with him.”

“No. They’re inside you somewhere. I can’t let them come out. Even if you promised never to reveal the things his patients told him in confidence, the next person to get his Quickening might not be so honorable.”

“Is that why you wanted those men to kill me?” Duncan asked, astonished. “So you could have Sean’s Quickening?”

“No,” Peter said, “I never wanted your head. I don’t deserve Sean’s Quickening. If you weren’t the one who’d killed him, I would have pocketed your ransom and let you go free. But since you were the right one, I was going to have them kill you here and behead you where no one could ever get his Quickening.”

“Why? Peter, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why is this so important?”

“You _must_ know,” Peter insisted angrily. “You have to know.”

Duncan shook his head in puzzlement and a dizzy sensation came over him momentarily. He had a brief mental image of being in Sean’s office on a blustery night. Startled, he backed jerkily away from Peter’s cautious approach. “I don’t know,” he repeated, while thinking, _Sean’s office? Why should I be seeing it now, and why in the rain?_

A memory, long unvisited, swam into his consciousness. He and Connor, that first winter, huddled together over a fire…

 

_**FLASHBACK: SCOTLAND—1625** _

“So when you take someone’s head, you get their soul?” Duncan asked.

“I don’t think so. No one really knows,” Connor answered. “You do get their power, their knowledge...”

“Then you have their memories?”

Connor hesitated before responding. “Yes. They go somewhere inside you. Ramirez told me that we suppress the memories; some sort of survival instinct.”

“Then you can’t use them? What good are they?” Duncan said impatiently.

“Ramirez told me there was a way to access them, but he never taught me how to do it. I’m not sure he knew himself. He told me once that our own memories are a heavy enough burden to carry without adding someone else’s.”

 

_**PRESENT** _

_There is nothing to remember,_ thought Duncan. _Nothing inside me; nothing for Peter to be afraid of. How do I convince him?_ Then another flash came to him: a brilliance of lightning beyond the chestnut trees outside Sean’s office, and the smell of the fire...

 _He knows,_ Peter thought. _He sees it. Oh, Duncan, why did it have to be you? Far better that some stranger knew my shame…_

 

_**FLASHBACK: FRANCE—1942** _

Peter was fidgeting on the settee. "I don’t understand this," Sean muttered to himself, "hypnosis usually works so well with you."

Sean quickly crossed to the settee and perched himself on its edge, gently smoothing the hair back from Peter’s forehead. “Peter,” he said gently, “you’re home. You’re safe. The things you see now are only images, dreams; they cannot harm you. They’re not real.”

“Sean?” Peter said, sounding almost child-like.

“Yes, it’s me,” Sean said, in soothing tones. “Relax, Peter; no one is going to hurt you. Do you remember how you got here?”

“Duncan,” Peter said, as if not quite sure.

“Duncan brought you home,” Sean confirmed. He rose to retrieve his notebook, discarded in haste a few minutes earlier. “What were you and Duncan doing before you came here?”

“He was digging. I was dead,” Peter said tonelessly.

“Good,” Sean said, making a brief entry in the notebook. “And before that?”

“Wine. We were moving some wine... in a wagon, not a lorry... petrol is so hard to get these days. But there was something else... a soldier... no, a pilot. We were smuggling a British pilot out of France,” Peter concluded triumphantly.

“And what happened?”

“The Germans came. They had guns. We had guns. The husband was dead. The woman... the woman screamed... the children,” Peter said, beginning to cry. “Oh, God, I killed the children.”

Sean glanced up from his notebook in surprise. _Duncan said the Nazis must have shot the children. Could he have been mistaken?_ “Peter,” he spoke carefully, “I don’t understand. Did you shoot the children by accident? Were they caught in a cross-fire?”

“I killed the children,” Peter repeated, as if unaware Sean had even spoken. “Not their fault, not their fault. Their mother... was so lovely... so lovely... and she lied to me. All those years, she lied. I went to see her, to say, `It’s your husband, darling. I’m not dead,’ ... not dead... Immortal... and I saw him kiss her goodbye, saw him laughing with the children, and suddenly I knew... all those years... all those evenings she’d `stayed on a bit after choir practice to work on a solo with the vicar, darling,’... suddenly I knew what she’d really been doing, and why they smiled at each other so, and _I_ _knew whose children they were_ ”, he said, with the rage growing in his voice.

“Peter...” Sean began, horrified, but Peter ignored him.

“He left the vicarage, and I went up to the door to speak to the vicar’s wife... to my wife. And I killed her... the anger in me killed my poor Lizbet, put my hands ’round her neck and squeezed... and then I found those bastard children... not mine, not human... and when I’d killed the children, I went to the church... not to kill him... to tell him I’d taken his wife and children just as he’d taken mine and he’d spend the rest of his life pining for something he couldn’t have and it _served him right_... only he wasn’t there... he wasn’t there, but God was, and all the anger drained right out of me and I was ashamed, so ashamed, so sickened by what I’d done... and then Duncan came... Duncan came, but I didn’t tell him what I’d done, and their bodies were only a hundred yards away from us... why couldn’t Lizbet have been Immortal? Why was I the one punished with life?”

 

_**PRESENT** _

As Peter stood there, reliving the memory of his confession, a part of him saw Duncan’s face go slack with dismay. _I’m sorry, Duncan. So sorry._

Duncan shook his head to clear it, not trusting the fragmented images that had come to him. “You killed someone?” he asked, in stunned disbelief.

His question had a galvanic effect on Peter, who immediately raised his sword to a more aggressive posture and lunged at Duncan. Caught off-guard by the sudden attack, Duncan received a deep cut in his left shoulder while warding off a blow aimed at his neck.

“You know I killed someone, and you know who. You saw!”

“I didn’t see you kill anyone,” Duncan insisted.

“I killed Lizbet and the children,” Peter said, with tears on his cheeks, as he slowly advanced.

“No. No,” Duncan said, almost pleading as he backed away from Peter. “You didn’t. You loved her. It’s not real. You didn’t tell Sean you killed her.”

“You know I did,” Peter said. “After the Nazis killed me. There was a terrible storm one night...”

“No,” Duncan said, not wanting it to be true.

“Yes,” Peter said, lunging in to slash at Duncan’s side. Duncan parried the attack, but only just in time.

“We don’t have to do this!” Duncan hissed, as Peter withdrew, looking for an opening. “I don’t want to kill you!”

“I killed them!” Peter shouted, as he made another attack. This time, Duncan was ready for him and Peter came away with a shallow gash across his chest.

“I know that!” Duncan roared back, as their blades collided yet again. He stabbed Peter in the chest, then said, “You were ill. Sean knew that. Sean forgave you. Why not forgive yourself and leave me the hell out of it?”

Duncan backed away, giving Peter the choice to continue or withdraw. _Please stop._ _ **Please**_ _. I don’t want your head._

“I can’t,” Peter said, as he crumpled to the floor, clutching his chest. “Do you think I’m proud of what I did? Do you think I want to remember? God help me, I avoided Sean for nearly ten years because the temptation to kill him was growing too strong, and he was my teacher. No one can know. No one.

“I didn’t go to Sean’s funeral because I was ashamed of myself for wishing him dead. And then I ran into Keane and he told me he thought you were responsible for Sean’s death. I stayed away, Duncan. I stayed away as long as I could, but I couldn’t bear knowing that you knew. So I decided to kill you. I had some men following you, even told them to be on the lookout for your student in case I needed to bait the trap, but that wasn’t necessary. Our friendship was enough to lure you.”

“Peter,” Duncan began, but Peter continued as if he hadn’t heard.

“I could have had you killed without ever seeing you, but I wanted to be sure, so I had us kidnapped. That way, you couldn’t take my head, and I knew you’d confess to killing Sean if you thought you were going to die. I knew you, you see. Because of what you are, I knew you’d tell me if you’d done it.

“And because of what I am, I have to kill you,” Peter concluded, struggling to his feet.

“No,” Duncan protested, but Peter was already swinging his blade in earnest. Duncan stabbed Peter deep in the abdomen. “Peter, don’t do this,” Duncan pleaded, as he pulled his sword free. Peter doubled over, but did not fall this time. “Walk away. I don’t want your head. Stop this.”

“Can’t,” Peter gasped, as he staggered forward to make another attack.

Duncan sobbed as he severed Peter’s head. As the Quickening took him, forcing him screaming to his knees, he thought he could hear the sweet, low voice of Peter’s Lizbet, singing a lullaby to her children.

 

 _Come on, Mac, you’ve got to be here somewhere,_ Richie told himself. A few miles in the distance, he could suddenly see lightning against the darkness. He nearly rear-ended someone while looking at it, trying to determine whether it was genuine lightning or a Quickening. With sudden decision, he pressed down on the accelerator and headed in the direction of the lightning.

He circled what he judged to be the right area for fifteen minutes before picking up the sensation of another Immortal. He turned down the next street and immediately lost the sensation. Painstakingly, he drove back and forth until he found the right place: a rundown warehouse. And there was Duncan, sitting on the pavement just outside the door, looking as if he’d run a marathon. Richie skidded to a stop and jumped out of the T-bird.

“Mac...?”

“It was Peter,” Duncan said wearily. “His body’s inside. He hired the kidnappers. They’ve gone.”

Richie’s eyes widened in surprise, but he took in the defeated slump of Duncan’s body and decided not to press for details. “Methos is trying to follow the guy with the ransom.”

“The money’s not important,” Duncan said. Richie nodded and sat down next to Duncan, occasionally stealing a sideways glance at the older man’s face. Duncan sensed his concern and said, “We should never have to kill someone we care about.”

“I know,” Richie answered softly. “But sometimes we don’t get a choice.”

A companionable silence fell between them, then Richie said, “I went to Joe’s the other night. You know, to do the tape thing.”

“How’d it go?” Duncan asked blankly.

“Okay, I guess,” Richie said. “But...” he paused, awkwardly searching for the right words.

Duncan looked at him, suddenly reminded that he’d had other concerns than Peter. “But?”

Richie hesitated, then squirmed visibly before saying, “Diapers?”

Duncan’s lips twitched with amusement. _Gotcha, big guy,_ Richie thought in delight, before blurting out a half-serious grievance. “You couldn’t have come up with something a little more embarrassing?”

Duncan shrugged and explained, “I didn’t say it to embarrass you, Rich; I was simply being honest. Besides, those tapes are meant to be kept secret until after the Gathering, so they can’t be used against us. This thing of Joe’s... Watchers can follow us all our lives and end up not knowing much more than who we’ve fought and where we’ve been. They can’t see into our souls. _I couldn’t see into Peter’s soul. Even Sean couldn’t. Can any man ever truly know another’s heart?_

“Joe’s a good man, and a sharp observer of human nature, which makes him an excellent Watcher, but Watchers like Joe are rare. Someday, when the Gathering’s over, there’ll be nothing left of us but stories. I wanted some of the stories about us to be _by_ us, so people can get the whole picture. Mortals... have a lot of trouble identifying with Duncan MacLeod, the Immortal, because they don’t go around carrying swords and cutting people’s heads off. They _can_ identify with Duncan MacLeod, the guy who can’t get his teenager to do as he’s told, because that’s something they’ve experienced.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” Richie protested. Duncan raised his eyebrows, prompting Richie to admit, “Okay, so maybe I was kind of a pain in the ass. But I’ve gotten better.”

Duncan smothered a quick smile before continuing. “I agreed to help Joe out because I want the world to remember us not just as a bunch of sword-wielding killers, but as men and women who have loved and hurt and had to rebuild their lives from nothing, again and again. Someday...” Duncan’s voice cracked slightly, and his eyes were moist as he continued, “Someday, I’ll tell Joe all about Peter. How I found him, how I befriended him, how I trusted him... and also how I killed him. And that won’t be an easy story because I liked Peter. He wasn’t really an evil man... just wounded... wounded in a way he never recovered from.”

Duncan wiped his eyes with the back of a hand, but smiled weakly when Richie placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “So you’ll have to excuse me if I take a little wicked pleasure in embarrassing you. There are never enough happy stories.”

“It’s all right,” Richie said shyly. “I mean, like how bad can it be?”

Duncan grinned and said, “You have a very short memory.” He rose and began moving slowly toward the T-bird with Richie in his wake.

“What?” Richie asked, suddenly suspicious. “Mac!”

 

The next day, Joe came out of his office to find Methos sitting at a table alone, nursing a beer. Joe grabbed a drink for himself and joined him.

“To you,” Joe said, raising his glass in a toast.

Methos was bemused. “And what am I being lauded for today? Not, of course, that I don’t deserve it.”

“Being one calculating son of a bitch,” Joe said amiably.

“Ah, the usual. At the moment, I’m afraid the only thing I’m calculating are my chances of getting some free beer.”

“Done,” Joe said magnanimously, gesturing to a waitress. “Bring my friend a pitcher on the house.”

He waited until the pitcher had arrived before casually remarking, “I know you set Richie up.”

Methos looked up from his beer with a wide-eyed innocence that was a little too perfect. “Set him up to do what?”

“Get caught breaking into the bar. You see, I remembered the other day that you heard me telling Mike he could borrow my car because I was going to spend the night here. Wasn’t too long after that that Richie dropped by; that must have been when you `accidentally’ told him about the tapes. My guess is you acted all surprised when he told you he didn’t know about the research project and then you tried to downplay the whole thing like it wasn’t really anything for him to worry about.”

Methos smiled lazily. “Now why should I do a thing like that?”

“You wanted to bring him into the project.”

“Joe, if I’d wanted that, I could have simply asked him.”

“He might have said no. By telling him about the tapes before Mac did, you made them seem like forbidden fruit, a little secret the grownups were keeping from him. There’s no way he would have turned down that kind of bait. Once he was caught, you talked him into joining the project while he was still feeling guilty about breaking in.”

“Definitely not my style,” Methos said. “I actually tried to discourage him.”

“I’ll bet you did,” Joe said with a knowing look. “That’s exactly your style. You don’t force people to do anything. You set options in front of them and wait for their natural inclinations to take them down the paths you want them to choose. The trick is knowing which way people will jump and what sort of bait to use.”

“I must say you’re giving me credit for an admirable amount of deviousness,” Methos replied with a grin. “You’ve neglected to explain why I’d bother.”

“It’s no secret you’d like Mac to take the Prize,” Joe said, “and we both know his relationship with Richie could affect his chances in the Game. If we didn’t realize it before, we sure learned it in spades when Mac thought he’d killed him. My guess is that you want to manipulate that relationship in order to protect Mac, and you can’t do that unless you understand it. Getting Richie’s side of things gives you more to work with.”

Methos said nothing for a long moment, then slowly nodded to himself as if arriving at a decision. “Think back, Joe,” he said, with a smile that was a little too pleasant for comfort. “When did you get the idea for your research project?”

Joe looked puzzled, then thoughtful, then ruefully amused. “You bastard,” he said slowly, “you did it to me, too. You’re the one who started it. You did all this just to manipulate Mac?”

“One tool can serve many purposes,” Methos said cryptically. “In return for that tacit admission of guilt, I’d like you to help me with another piece of the puzzle. Help me find a way to bring Connor into this.”

“Connor?” Joe exclaimed in a mixture of admiration and irritation. “Because he was Mac’s teacher? You don’t quit, do you?” Methos shook his head in grave amusement. “Just what are you planning?” Joe asked, suddenly suspicious.

“Nothing you wouldn’t approve of,” Methos hastily assured him. “I’m certainly not trying to drive a wedge between Duncan and Richie.”

“Think I don’t know that? I’d have slugged you by now if you were,” Joe said, with a gleam in his eye. “You may not give a damn about Richie, but I do.”

“I never said I disliked him,” Methos said, sounding mildly irritated. “What’s the average life expectancy for someone who’s been Immortal for less than ten years? I’ve been Immortal for fifty centuries, Joe. I’ve seen far too many newborn Immortals slain to want to become attached to another one. If you’d spent five thousand years watching some dread disease kill young dogs, would you want to get a puppy?”

Joe said nothing, but the troubled look on his face told Methos he’d gotten his point across.

“Joe,” Methos continued, “When I first met Duncan, Richie was going through one of his prickly adolescent phases, and their relationship was strained. Even then, I knew I couldn’t break the bond between them without doing serious damage to both of them. Not just to Richie; to Duncan as well. And that, if nothing else, should convince you that I don’t intend to hurt Richie. The last thing I want to do is give MacLeod something to brood over; the distraction could cost him his head.”

“So what are you up to?”

“I simply want them to see each other for what they are. Duncan’s been trying to grow Richie up as fast as he can, to improve the boy’s chances in the Game, but he can be astoundingly dense about Richie’s emotional needs. The more secure Richie feels, the more smoothly their relationship runs, and the less Duncan has to worry about.”

Joe thought for a moment. “All right, I’ll see what I can do,” he promised, “on one condition. You’re going to tell us all about your teacher. And I do mean all.”

Methos, who had practically been purring throughout most of the conversation, suddenly lost his air of self-satisfaction. His eyes widened fractionally, then he said, “That’s not really relevant, Joe.”

“That’s the deal,” Joe said, “and it’s a one-time offer. Take it or leave it. And make up your mind fast, ’cause Mac just walked in.”

“I’ll take it,” Methos said quickly, as Duncan came up to them. “And it is you who are the bastard.”

“He is?” Duncan said, having caught the tail end of their conversation.

“It’s nothing, Mac,” Joe replied. “I was just pointing out a few unpleasant truths to our elderly friend here. Like how his habit of manipulating people is really a sublimated power trip left over from his Horsemen days.”

“Thank you so much for bringing that up,” Methos said lightly. “You must remind me to plunder your village sometime.”

“What’s this all about?” Duncan asked, looking from Joe to Methos as he took a seat.

“Nothing, really,” Methos said casually. “We were just having a smartass contest.”

“Who won?”

“Joe did,” Methos said sourly.

“Congratulations, Joe,” Duncan said with a smile, “and thanks. Richie told me you helped him find me with some Watcher information.”

“Forget it, Mac. I’m sorry things turned out the way they did.”

“Not your fault,” Duncan said.

“It’s rather ironic, though,” Methos said. “Peter wanted to kill you to bury a shameful secret, as if hiding what he’d done could somehow make it untrue. But the Watchers knew his little secret, so...”

“What?” Duncan said in surprise, looking at Joe.

Joe nodded. “Not all of our records are online. I had to get the office in Europe to pull the paper copy of Peter’s file.”

“You had a Watcher on him back then?”

“Actually, I think it was Sean’s Watcher,” Joe explained, “but we’d guessed Peter might be Immortal since you’d taken him to the asylum. Anyway, our people got alerted and someone picked up his trail in London and they reported the murders.”

“So killing you wouldn’t have done the least bit of good,” Methos concluded. “As long as the Watchers survive, Peter’s secret can never be erased.”

“Well, the Watchers won’t survive if I don’t get caught up on my paperwork,” Joe said. “I’ll see you guys later.”

“Bye, Joe,” Duncan said absently as Joe left them.

“Duncan?” Methos said, but the Highlander’s thoughts were elsewhere. “MacLeod!” he said a bit more sharply. This time, he succeeded in capturing Duncan’s attention. “It’s not your fault.”

“He died for nothing.”

“Many of us do. You’re not to blame for his obsessions. I think it would be a good idea in future to keep your mouth shut about having Sean’s Quickening. Peter may not be the only Immortal with secrets to suppress.”

“Methos,” Duncan said hesitantly, “I don’t think Joe should go on with this project of his. It’s too dangerous. If any Hunters got hold of the tapes... or other Immortals... What would Peter have done to get at those tapes if he’d known about them? We’re endangering Joe as well as ourselves.”

“It is a risk,” Methos agreed, “but most of what we’ve said is hardly suitable blackmail material. I think the potential benefits outweigh the risks. You know why Joe’s doing this, don’t you?”

Duncan nodded. “If the Gathering lasts a century, there may be no Watchers left who were friends with Immortals, who knew what we were really like. The tapes are a way of humanizing us.”

“Yes, that’s the public reason,” Methos agreed. “There’s also a private reason, one I’m not sure Joe will admit, even to himself.”

“Which is?”

“Look at things the other way. Suppose the Gathering only lasts another decade... perhaps even less than that.” He paused, waiting for Duncan to make the connection.

“Joe could outlive us,” Duncan said, realizing it for the first time.

“Yes, he could,” Methos agreed. “Those tapes would be all that he has left of us.”

In his imagination, Duncan pictured an older version of Joe, sitting alone in near-darkness with a drink in one hand, listening to the voices of his dead friends. _All that he has left of us..._

The mental image shifted, and Duncan saw a much younger-looking man sitting in a room full of books, scribbling in a journal. A man who’d surrounded himself with millions of words written about thousands of Immortals because the Immortals themselves had gone to dust.

Methos the gossip. Methos the manipulator. Methos the lonely.


End file.
